Memoirs of a Really Old Guy
by Hoshi-tachi
Summary: Five thousand years is more than enough time to gather more stories than can ever be told to Mac and Joe over a beer. Assuming they'd even believe Methos, that is. A collection of unrelated one-shots and ficlets.
1. More Than Meets the Eye

Welcome to the _Memoirs of a Really Old Guy_, where I indulge my obsession with the world's oldest pain-in-the-ass Immortal by writing out a few of the plot bunnies he inflicts on me. I doubt any of them will ever be fully written out, as that would involve actually watching the entire Highlander series for research purposes, and I'm not sure I want to put myself through that. I don't suppose it comes in a book form? Anyway, if any reader happens on this and feels the urge to continue one of these, contact me and I'll give all my permission and blessings.

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**More Than Meets the Eye**

_(Highlander/Transformers: 2007 Movie-verse)_

_Disclaimer: I own nothing pertaining to the Transformers or Highlander franchises.

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_

The AllSpark was gone.

It was only days after Mission City that the loss truly sank in. The centerpiece of their war, the thing Cybertronian had fought Cybertronian for, vorn after vorn, the very _tool_ of their _creation_… gone. Gone in what, had it not been for the AllSpark's presence, would have been nothing more than a minor skirmish on an unimportant planet in the far reaches of the galaxy.

Though still mired in their shock, the Autobots did not spend those days idly. Optimus Prime engaged in seemingly endless negotiations with Secretary Keller, and through him the President of the United States. Optimus wished to use Earth as a rendezvous point for the scattered remnants of the Autobot forces. The humans weren't about to allow giant alien robots to go gallivanting about their country without limiting their movements as much as possible, especially when they were so determined not to let on to the general public that said giant alien robots even existed.

Such a pity, that "swarm of meteors" that had wreaked such destruction on Mission City. The news channels were full of sob stories and very carefully edited videos of the incident. Anyone who claimed anything different had happened was being dismissed as a crackpot.

While Optimus negotiated, the other three Autobots continued about their duties. The damaged parts of the city had been evacuated, allowing Ratchet and Ironhide to assist in combing through the rubble for any more survivors, and cleaning up as best they could. Once a couple of days had passed, though, news crews and recovery workers could no longer be kept out, and the two Autobots were forced to go to ground, so to speak. Ratchet's alt mode kept him busy enough as one of the city's ambulances. Ironhide found himself, amidst much grumbling, acting as chauffeur for the few soldiers who knew about them. It was awkward at first, neither party quite sure what to make of the other, but it wasn't long before the Topkick and the soldiers were comfortably talking shop.

Bumblebee, of course, was fulfilling his self-appointed duty of standing guard over Sam Witwicky. The human child spent the first few days after Mission City kept under observation in a military hospital, with an anxious Camaro camped out in the parking lot. With as many times as Sam had been tossed around during the battle, the doctors were concerned about internal bruising or bleeding. Sam had come through remarkably unscathed, though, and with only bruises and scrapes to show for it, he was finally released to the custody of his increasingly shrill parents. Neither of whom knew the true events surrounding Mission City, and who were very confused by "the government's replacement" of their son's beat-up old car with a concept Camaro worth a significant fraction of a year's pay. The Witwickys, still worried about their son, refused to let him out of their sight for another couple of weeks.

All in all, it was quite some time before Sam and Bumblebee could meet up with the other Autobots on Lookout Point. It was an incredible relief to be out of the house, and both of them had been looking forward to seeing everyone again, but their almost giddy mood disappeared when they found Ironhide missing, and Optimus and Ratchet deep in serious discussion.

"What's up?" Sam asked, looking up at Optimus. "Did more Autobots show up? Or Decepticons?"

"No, Sam, it will still be some time before any others arrive. Even those who might have already received my message must still travel to your planet." Optimus knelt to make discussion with the human easier. Bumblebee had mentioned that being forced to continuously look up at the much taller Cybertronians could cause physical discomfort for Sam's species. "We were speculating at the possible causes for some data that has recently come to light."

Sam leaned back against Bee's leg, one hand absently patting it. "Yeah? Interesting data, or worrying data? I take it it's not, you know, the world's-about-to-end data, 'cause I'd think there'd be a lot more panicking going on if it was."

He heard Bee chuckle above him, a quiet chirping sound, but Optimus just shook his head. "The data is very interesting, but potentially a cause for concern. Are you aware that the AllSpark emitted a very distinctive spectrum of energy?"

"No…" Sam frowned. "Wait, if it did, why couldn't you guys just track it that way? Why all that stuff with the glasses?"

The Autobot shook his head again. "Normally, we could. However, your atmosphere has some very unique properties, and the AllSpark's energies resist dissipation to begin with. That is part of how our Sparks are formed. The AllSpark was present on your world for so long that its energy suffused your atmosphere in an even enough fashion that its presence could only be narrowed down to this continent."

Ratchet spoke up for the first time, and Sam shivered as he realized the 'bot had been distracted with running scans of his person. He hated it when Ratchet did that- or, at least, he was coming to realize he hated it. "That energy has lingered unexpectedly in certain areas of your world. You yourself were one of these places, but it has mostly since dissipated in your case. I project the energy will be completely gone within another two weeks."

He knew he was gaping, but he couldn't help it. "What!" Sam yelped. "And just when were you going to tell me this?"

"It could not have harmed you, Sam," Optimus soothed. "I requested that Bumblebee monitor the situation just in case, but we truly believed no harm would come to you, and that is indeed the case."

"_I'll take care of you, don't be sad, don't be blue_," Bee sang in agreement.

It still wasn't okay. It really wasn't okay. But that was going to be a really long discussion, and Sam had a curfew. He wasn't going to spend the first free time they had in an argument. "Later. We'll come back to that later. You said there are some places it's still hanging around?"

"If places are the correct term. The level of energy is weak relative to the AllSpark itself, but is for the most part stable and falls within strict boundaries. We might have assumed that there were simply geographic anomalies gathering the energy, but the area inhabited by the energy is very small, and is mobile."

Sam tried to imagine that. Maybe if they described it well enough, he could match something up. "Okay… so it's small and moving. How small?"

"The energy is concentrated in a concentric field that varies slightly in diameter, but averages approximately the size of a single building. It is weakest at the boundary, and strongest in an area a little larger than yourself. The speed at which the fields travel also varies, but at least once one has been transported by jet airplane, and transportation within vehicles is common." Optimus projected a small-scale hologram, with a disk of blue light superimposed over the image of Sam's house and yard. The edges were a very pale blue, while the center looked like a glowing, solid sapphire. "We are currently tracking four hundred and twenty-two such fields."

"There is another characteristic that puzzles us," Ratchet added. "Twice in the week we have been monitoring the energy fields, two fields have met and one disappeared, while the other grew stronger by a minuscule amount."

After a minute Sam sighed and shook his head. "Sorry, but I can't think of anything electronic that'd do any of that."

"Nor can we," Optimus admitted. "Ironhide has gone to observe the strongest of the fields, as it is fairly close by."

Sam plopped down in the grass cross-legged so he could put his elbows on his knees and rest his chin in his hands. "If one field is absorbing another… how strong would the last field be if you got it to absorb all the others?"

The Autobots didn't visibly glance at each other, but he still got the feeling they were exchanging meaningful looks over his head. "Still nowhere near the strength of the whole AllSpark, but, perhaps, powerful enough to perform some of its functions."

"The Decepticons- they'll be able to sense the fields too. And they'll go after the strongest one, and make it absorb all the others." Sam didn't ask what functions those might be. He didn't want to hope that it might be able to kindle new Sparks, that just maybe he hadn't doomed his friends' race to extinction when he destroyed the AllSpark.

"Indeed." Optimus nodded gravely.

"We must hope Ironhide reaches it first."

* * *

_Seacouver_

It looked like it was going to rain. But he was out of beer, not to mention something to make for dinner, so Methos muttered a curse to himself and pulled his coat tighter. He really needed to remember to pick up an umbrella at some point, given how often Seacouver's skies decided to pour down on its inhabitants. There'd just been so many distractions lately…

No one knew what was going on. It was as though the very air had changed, and was still changing- Methos had felt it, weeks ago, like both the lifting of a heavy blanket from his senses and the loss of some spark of vitality whenever he breathed in. Immortals the world over had reacted to it, according to Joe, and at first they had all feared the Gathering had come. But time had passed without anything else out of the ordinary occurring, and finally Immortals seemed to be settling back into their normal patterns.

It was still unsettling, though, whenever Methos felt the brush of Macleod's Quickening against his. His range had increased enormously, as had Mac's- though not nearly to the same extent as Methos's- and now he could feel the other Immortal across half the breadth of Seacouver. It was if there had been something interfering with the signal, and now that something had been removed. He wasn't entirely pleased. Sure, it would come in handy as a better first warning system, but Methos worried a bit over the potential loss in accuracy. It didn't do much good to know when another Immortal entered your city, only to then be incapable of avoiding them.

There were damp patches on the sidewalk still from yesterday's rain, and Methos wondered yet again what he was doing living in a place where moss grew on you if you stayed still long enough. Macleod and Joe were here, yes, but it wasn't as though he visited them all that often. The University was decent, but there were other schools of similar caliber in places with much more amenable climates. And as soon as the Highlander had moved in Seacouver became as much Immortal Central as Paris had been. So really, with so many arguments against staying, why wasn't he on the next plane to somewhere tropical? It was about time for Adam Pierson to take a swan dive off the nearest bridge anyway; he really was pushing it, getting sloppy. Too many years in one persona wasn't a good thing for you, it made you sentimental.

A chill ran down his spine, and Methos shivered. Or maybe that was the paranoia talking. Ever since the world had changed- a shift in the magnetic field, or in the composition of the atmosphere, whatever the hell it was- there was a constant feeling of eyes on his back. He might have thought the Watchers had finally tumbled to his little dual identity of Watcher and Immortal and assigned him a tail, except hacking their system (what Joe never knew wouldn't hurt him) showed they were still as clueless as ever. Methos had cautiously brought up the question over a beer at Joe's, and learned that he wasn't the only Immortal feeling the sensation of eyes. With no other proof, he had to conclude it was yet another side effect of the change.

With another glance up at the overcast skies, he set off down the sidewalk towards the nearest convenience store. If he hurried, he might actually get there and back with beer and dinner in tow without even getting damp. It was a fairly forlorn hope, but still possible.

Down the street, in the other direction was parked a black-and-white with an unnaturally still driver. Even if Methos had looked that way, there was no way he could have known its attention was focused solely on him.

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A/N: I'm surprised no one else has yet connected the Allspark energy with Quickenings, or recognized the similarities between the abruptness of an animated Nokia phone with a pre-Immortal foundling out of nowhere. There had to be some kind of side effect from the Allspark being on Earth for all those years, after all. Look at what it did to Cybertron. And the Transformers theme song, "more than meets the eye". If that doesn't say "Adam Pierson", I don't know what does.

Obviously, _Revenge of the Fallen_ is being ignored, in no small part because I still haven't gotten around to watching it. The possibilities of the first movie are so much more interesting anyway.

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21 January 2011


	2. The Improbable Remains

He'd meant for it to be a quiet life. He really had.

Not everyone would have understood that. Joining the Army, even as a doctor, and getting deployed to a warzone, wouldn't have occurred to any normal person as anything to do with "quiet". And Afghanistan certainly wasn't quiet- mortars and IEDs, helicopters and shouts for a medic- though at night, out in the desert, it was sometimes just as quiet and still and perfect as it had been three thousand years ago. But it was so very simple. There were orders to obey, lives to save, great bleeding wounds to staunch so his fellow soldiers could be moved somewhere safe and out of the line of fire, and he hardly had to think as the days, months, years passed.

It was the most peaceful and _alive_ he'd felt in decades, existing with a quiet, simple purpose even as adrenaline heightened his senses and steadied his hands.

His friends wouldn't have understood, even if they'd recognized him. Well, perhaps Joe would; a part of him had always resented being honorably discharged after his injuries, and that part would always belong to the battlefield, whatever demands peacetime made on it. Being a Watcher was the closest Joe could get anymore, and it certainly provided its share of adrenaline. But Mac? No. When Macleod fought, it was for a cause, for the victory. It was never for the fighting. Never for the feeling, the sheer rush of knowing you could be only moments from death, and yet you still breathed.

Methos came from a far less civilized time. He'd already been a thousand years old before the world had begun to change enough that some might live their lives without that constant struggle to survive, and even those lives had been few and far between. Being on the battlefield was like coming home, and all the more poignant for someone who had no other place to call such. His first step onto Afghani soil (in a good century and a half, at least) felt like a weight lifted off his soul. He was free, despite the demands the British Army made on his time and loyalty. He had no past, and no thought for the future. There was only the present.

It wasn't until three years later that he had any cause to regret his choice. An IED had knocked over one of two Wolfs out patrolling the outskirts of Kabul; initial reports said no soldiers had been killed, and there'd been no follow-up fire, but a soldier had been pinned by the vehicle and needed medical attention and extraction. Methos' squad was dispatched to give immediate aid, and all seemed to be going well, until a dozen insurgents surrounded them in the rubble and opened fire. Afterwards it was a blur, a dust-hazed memory of shouting and gunfire and heat up until the point an insurgent got behind the doctor and clubbed him with the butt of his gun.

When Methos woke up, he was in a dark, cramped hole in the wall, bound tightly enough that his limbs screamed and guarded by armed _mujahideen_. There was a foul-tasting rag in his mouth, and even with his Immortal healing his muscles were aching. There was no way of knowing how long he had been unconscious, or whether he was the only Coalition soldier who had been captured, and all of his weapons had been removed. Including the Mainz gladius he'd been carrying under his regulation jacket, which was worrying for more than one reason. Already the lack of a sword was itching at his nerves; and yet, it would be the irony of ironies if the sword they'd pulled off of him inspired a _mujahid_ into one of their publicized beheadings. Attempting it would probably end up killing any and all participants as his Quickening raged free, but that wouldn't do Methos much good, would it?

They might have tried it in the end, but they chose to begin with torture. His healing was discovered almost immediately; where once Methos might have been mistaken for a _jinni_, and let go, he was now just another enemy. But even as they cut deeply into his shoulder joint, nearly severing it more than once, and thigh in order to watch him heal again and again, he was grateful for his head. Before their curiosity could be sated, he was rescued.

He had no obvious wounds, despite the copious amounts of dried and putrid blood on his uniform. Even so, the Army recognized at least the psychological effects of torture in the way any movement of his shoulder caused him agony, and how he limped badly enough to need a cane; after three years and two months in Afghanistan, Dr. John Watson was invalided back to London.

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A/N: Methos, old and enduring obsession, meet new, bright obsession: BBC's _Sherlock_. It takes a lot of pushing and shoving to make Methos fit into John, but the idea just wouldn't go away. I suspect a fuller version will be forthcoming. Title taken from that infamous Holmes quote, _"How often have I said to you that when you have eliminated the impossible, whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth?"_

This took a surprising amount of research for its length, and I'm sure I still have things wrong despite trying to go light on details. One point I wanted to make sure to bring up was the dichotomy between Methos' and John's heights. Let's face it, John's short, and canon has Methos between four and six inches taller. I tend to quibble with _Highlander_ canon over that point, though. If it's assumed that Methos is in fact somewhere between 5,000 and 6,000 years old, the nutrition of that time period (agricultural, mostly) would make the average man an inch or two shorter than John's height, which depending on your source is somewhere between 5'6" and 5'8". If Methos had been born 8,000-10,000 years ago, during a time where hunting/gathering meant primarily protein diets, it's actually perfectly plausible that he could be 6 feet tall. The average height then was very close to what it is now; the switch to high-starch diets with agriculture shrunk people by an average of four inches. It's assumed in fanon that a great deal of Methos' intimidation factor as a Horseman was that he, along with Kronos, were veritable giants compared to the people they rampaged through, yet they still would have been giants during that time period at the, today, slightly short heights of 5'8".

In other words, the author finds the heights logical and complementary. Apologies for the mini-essay. Now the author needs to figure out how to deal with hair dye and Sherlock in the same flat.

Disclaimer: I own nothing pertaining to either the _Highlander_ or the _Sherlock_ franchises.

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27 January 2011


	3. Grimalkin

Legends speak of Immortals. Everlasting (or nearly so) beings, who have the potential to change the world beyond recognition, but are born with all the flaws of Man. Some say they are truly only men, blessed or cursed or who bartered away their true immortal souls for long lives. None believe them, of course. Most mortals do not even remember the tales, save for a few who watch.

_Immortals have Legends, too._

Methos is one such. All agree that if he is real, he is the oldest Immortal, though many disagree about his age. The general consensus is around five thousand years- and really, after that long, do a few more centuries either way really matter? The general consensus is also that he may be dead. It has been a thousand years since he was last seen, after all, and all accounts vary as to his appearance. There may never have been a Methos at all, simply a string of Immortals who took his name.

* * *

A very few Immortals know that there was once truly a Methos, who was Death of the Horsemen of the Apocalypse, immortalized in a different way by a Book and a religion. Four Immortals, who rode and pillaged and raped and raged for a thousand years and more, only to then quietly fade away.

_And here, we note, Legends can be very wrong indeed. There were five Horsemen, not four, though only four horses. Death and Chaos rode together, so it is very unsurprising that they were often mistaken for one._

Cassandra for one remembers Methos, and burns with the remembering. But memories are easily twisted, even Immortal memories, changed and twisted and overwritten. She remembers Methos the Man, who may have been Death, may have been Chaos. They had been very much alike, those two, and on occasion they took on the other's reputation. Both applied equally.

_They had the same sense of humor, after all. On occasion, this terrified the other Horsemen._

* * *

Methos remembers little about his origins. Egypt. He knows that much for a certainty. And he remembers he was once a man like any other man, though this memory is vague, and sometimes he wonders if he's made it up out of whole cloth. Logically he had to have been, but logic has never had much of a place in his long, long life.

Assuming it's true, though, then it means the memory he has of dying must be true as well. A ritual beheading, a gift to some god whose name he has forgotten, and that history never knew. It hadn't gone as planned, with thunder and lightning, destruction and death, and the little grey temple cat in the corner of the room.

_And then Egypt worshipped him as a god, and he has never forgotten this._

* * *

Few have truly known Methos, not even all of his forty-eight wives. He is a master manipulator, gifted beyond reason at making people see what he wishes them to see, controlling perception and belief. Some would even say supernaturally gifted.

_Some would be right._

Even those who do not know him well call him selfish. Lazy. Unmotivated except for those things necessary for survival or that catch his fancy. A few more knowing souls know him as occasionally mischievous, insatiably curious, and unfailingly hedonistic.

_All true. They may not always have been so- did his state define him, or did his traits define the rest of his kind?_

_Certainly tales of his many lives have become bedrock superstition._

* * *

Duncan Macleod felt the Buzz, and ran for the house, sure that Kalas had beaten him to the Methos researcher he'd been sent to protect. Yet he found no one inside when he burst through the door, despite the staggeringly powerful Buzz ringing in his ears as he called Pierson's name. Searching through the house with his sword bared in his hand showed it to be empty of anyone but himself.

_Almost empty. The little grey cat sprawled over the bed, with an open book propped in front of it, eyed him with that look unique to cats, equal parts amusement and irritation at the antics of the silly human._

Macleod checked the house again. There was nothing, nothing but the Buzz. Even as strong as it was, the Immortal it belonged to had to be close enough to be within Macleod's sight. Bewildered, and not knowing why he did, he returned to the bedroom, to the only other living thing present.

The cat rose to its feet, stretching first one leggy forepaw, then the other, and then all its body in a stretch that seemed to double its length. Then it looked expectantly at Macleod with vivid green-gold eyes.

"_Duncan Macleod of the Clan Macleod," it said, though its mouth never moved. "Welcome. Mi casa es su casa."_

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**A/N:** This is what happens when the muse sidles up during a two-day moderate migraine, in a slow period at work, and whispers, "Hey, I've got kind of a weird idea…" Inspired in equal parts by Terry Pratchett (catch the semi-quote) and The Snow Leopard's Immortal Cat (the _Armed Intervention_ series), and a few too many times seeing fics compare Methos to a cat. This was a very rough train-of-thought, with Methos losing his head when young, taking over a cat's body, and pretty much inspiring every twisted perception of a cat throughout history. With psychic powers thrown in, the ability to make people see him as a human if he wants, telekinesis as well. Logic has no place here, either. I strongly suggest looking up "Grimalkin" on Wikipedia.

My writing has taken a hiatus for the most part. I've mostly been focusing on my job, which has resulting in two promotions and three pay raises in six months, with a fourth raise expected in April. Throw in some family drama and classes on top of that.

Disclaimer: I own nothing pertaining to _Highlander_ or _Discworld_.

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9 February 2012


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